their throat is so swollen they swear
they're allergic to oxygen.
every breath seems worse for them,
every non-breath too.
10 calories stretching from eight in the morning
to three in the afternoon.
count their hours like clockwork,
grant them a gear to rid any hunger.
they press their feet into the old scale,
removing their shirt for accuracy.
they're losing happiness and weight,
with every number dropped.
this is everything they want.
they believe that if they're beautiful,
things will be better— it's true.
ever heard of the pretty pass? it exists.
weight is not a measure of beauty,
but for some reason they are an exception.
lose some weight,
look at all that stomach fat,
no boy will ever want you.
it's really no wonder your friends don't speak up when you say you're ugly.
dizzy little days,
bloody frustrated nights,
crying to sad songs,
a story fit for anyone.
they can be skinnier,
at least they can try in an attempt to be pretty.
please god, don't make this harder for them.
a selfish and overreacting little girl,
whose biggest struggle is her reflection
and biggest friend is the sharp pin on
my bedside table—
her bedside table.
she just wants to be pretty.
please let me be pretty.
7:35pm november 22nd
